The Grand Ballroom of the Royal Metropole was a cathedral of excess. Gold-leaf moldings spiraled toward a ceiling painted with scenes of ancient conquests, and the light from three-ton crystal chandeliers shattered against the diamonds of the city's elite. This was the "upper crust"—the billionaires, the old-money judges, and the politicians who prided themselves on their distance from the "filth" of the streets.
Tonight, the "filth" was coming for dinner.
Dante Vane stood at the top of the grand marble staircase, a dark omen in a sea of white-tie formality. He wore a tuxedo that cost more than a slum-tenement, but he carried it with the predatory grace of a man who knew he could kill everyone in the room with his bare hands. Beside him, clutching his arm with a mixture of terror and intoxicating power, was Anna.
